A Helping Hand
by ArwenGreenEyes
Summary: Spoilers for Season 4. Someone thinks our favorite boys are a little too accident-prone to be left completely to their own devices, and they're all too right. Set right after Are You There, God?
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! So, I'm now officially addicted to Supernatural and thought I'd try my hand at a fic. Let me know what you think! Sadly, I don't own those damn adorable Winchester boys, I just get to push them around in my stories. Happy reading!  
**

**Arwen**

"So," Sam said from the passenger seat, "let me get this straight."

Dean sighed and resisted the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel. He gritted his teeth together. "You're the one who believes in all this hokey, Sam. What about this potentially apocalyptic situation can't you wrap your pretty little head around?"

Sam shot Dean a sideways look. "I'm just trying to make sure I got all the facts right." He looked out the window. They were speeding down the interstate. After the whole Witness fiasco, Bobby had wanted them to check up on the other hunters in the tri-state area. So far, they had found seven of the twenty hunters, all in varying degrees of bloody decomposition.

Dean took a deep breath. "Sixty-six seals. Castiel—"

"The angel," corrected Sam.

"Castiel," continued Dean doggedly, "said that they're like locks on a door."

"And Lilith is opening them." Sam shook his head. "She's a real pain in the ass."

"Yeah…y'know, the whole holding the contract to my soul thing had me thinking she was a pretty big bitch, but springing the devil? Now that's some serious shit."

"Eternal damnation and the apocalypse. Who knew you'd be lucky enough to see both," said Sam.

"Well, obviously not eternal damnation, Sammy," Dean replied, attempting to keep his tone light-hearted, but it didn't mask the twist to his mouth. They sat in silence for a little bit.

"Do you still not remember anything?" Sam finally asked, his concern showing in his eyes. He couldn't imagine the pain that Dean had endured…four months of Hell must have seemed like an eternity…a prickle of guilt stabbed him. All those times Dean had saved him—sold his soul to save him, the last time—and he hadn't been able to save Dean from Hell. It had taken an angel to do what he couldn't.

"What is this, twenty questions?" Dean demanded. "Come on, Sammy, I've been over this so many damn times already. I don't remember anything specific."

"Specific?" Sam pounced on his word choice.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know what? How about you get out the map and see where we can get some gas. And pie. Find someplace that has pie." He turned his eyes back to the road, grumbling, "That ought to keep you busy for a while."

Sam smiled a little and exactly two minutes later, after unfolding the map and scrutinizing it, he said, "If you take the next exit, there's a rest stop."

"Okay. Point one, 'rest stop' does not necessarily mean pie."

"But we do need gas. Pie isn't the most important thing in the world, Dean."

"You bite your tongue!" Dean took one hand off the steering wheel and jabbed a finger at Sam.

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"No—you shut up, you—pie-basher!"

"Jerk," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Bitch," Dean returned automatically. The familiar exchange still comforted him in an odd way. It let him know that everything was normal…or as normal as life ever got for a Winchester.

"Turn here." Sam pointed to the exit sign.

Five minutes later, they pulled into a run-down little gas station, with a dilapidated convenience store huddled at the edge of the parking lot. Dean pulled the Impala up to the pump and got out of the car. Sam followed suit. He took the opportunity to spread the state map over the hood of the Impala, poring over the red slashes that marked the location of each butchered hunter they'd found over the past few days. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair absently.

Dean finished pumping the gas. "You comin'?" he asked, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he began to walk toward the convenience store.

"Sure," Sam said, folding up the map hurredly. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn't like letting Dean out of his sight these days. And apparently Dean was starting to notice. He stopped and considered Sam, watching his younger brother fold the map crookedly in his rush.

"I'm not Cinderella, Sam," he said. "You don't have to be afraid of me turnin' into a pumpkin or any other of that fairy tale crap." He lifted his chin a little bit. "I don't need lookin' after, Sammy."

"Yeah, well, you tend to do stupid things when I'm not around," said Sam, lengthening his steps to catch up. They were halfway across the parking-lot.

"Is that so? Like what?"

"Well," Sam stalled, glancing over at his brother.

"Well what?"

"Well, like sell your soul to a demon."

"Seriously?" Dean stopped and faced Sam, his green eyes flashing. "You're seriously gonna pull that one?"

"Yes," Sam said emphatically. "Yes, I am. The fact that it saved my life doesn't change the fact that it was monumentally stupid!"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, like you were a perfect Boy Scout when I was away."

"You mean when you were in Hell?" Sam smiled bleakly. "Of course I was. I mean, my older brother, who sold his soul to save my life, was rotting in Hell and there wasn't a thing I could do about it, no matter what I tried. Of course I was a perfect—"

"Okay. Okay. Let's just stop." Dean held up his hands in a sign of truce as they neared the glass doors of the convenience store. "Just…stop, Sammy." He sighed. "If you really want, we can argue more about who's stupider than who later." He glanced into the window of the store and his eyes lit up. "Pie!"

The tense mood broken, Sam had to roll his eyes and smile. They walked into the convenience store. Sam grabbed a cup of coffee, and Dean examined every slice of pie in the revolving dessert case before carefully selecting a plate.

"Joint's busy for a weekday," remarked Dean as they got in line to check out. There were four people in front of them, and at least five more roaming the aisles, perusing the snacks and drinks. Dean glanced out into the parking lot. He nudged Sam's elbow.

"What, dude? You almost made me spill my coffee."

"Look at the parking lot," said Dean quietly.

Sam glanced behind him. Besides the Impala, there was only two other cars in the parking lot, one parked in the spot reserved for employees.

"Maybe they carpool," muttered Sam.

"Yeah, fat chance," replied Dean.

They moved up a step in line. Dean made a sudden movement, his hand twitching toward the shoulder with the imprint of Castiel's hand.

"So what…overly crowded convenience stores is one of the sixty-six seals to set Lucifer free?" Dean whispered sarcastically. Sam glanced over at his brother. Dean had gotten into the habit of addressing the air somewhere above his head, as if angels were listening in, and he seemed determined to give them a piece of his mind just like he did everyone else. The whole "respect" part of his conversation with Castiel obviously hadn't taken hold.

"I hate it when they make me notice things like that," Dean growled loud enough for Sam to hear. "It's like they're in my head. Makes me jumpy."

"Excuse me," a woman behind them said.

Dean turned around.

"Um, I was wondering, I know it's rude, but it's kind of an emergency. I'm late for an interview, could I just slip in front of you?"

The woman was young, maybe mid-twenties, Dean guessed, with hazel eyes and long tawny hair that hovered somewhere between golden and chestnut. Nice figure. She was tall, almost as tall as him, with a strong look that suggested she had been an athlete in her college days. From the look of her long legs, she still ran. Dean jumped as Sam poked him in the side. He automatically turned on the smile and the Winchester charm. "Of course, go right on ahead."

As the young woman slid in front of them in line, he noticed that she was holding a Tide stick in one hand, and there was a large coffee stain on the right side of her light blue blouse. Her tailored trousers and tasteful heels were utterly out of place in the convenience store.

Dean was still absorbed in his evaluation, working his way down from the shoulders, when Sam grabbed his wrist. He tensed immediately and looked up. The cashier was staring at a man holding a gun in her face. The guy was huge, looked like he belonged on the offensive line of a professional football team.

"Give me the cash," the man was snarling, waving the pistol around. Only the tawny-haired woman stood between the brothers and the gunman.

"Dean," Sam gritted when he saw his brother's eyes calculating the distance between them and the gunman. The cashier was pulling all the bills out of the cash register, laying them on the counter. Dean took half a step forward as the gunman counted the money.

"There has to be more than this," the man shouted at the cashier. "Open the safe!"

"We don't—there's no—I don't have the key!" said the very young, very frightened girl behind the counter. Dean's lips tightened as the man grabbed the girl's arm, jerking her toward him. She cried out as her hip hit the counter hard. The tawny-haired woman was standing very still. Too still. Sam watched her and frowned, tilting his head. There was something odd…

In the split second he took his attention off Dean to contemplate the woman, Dean lunged forward and tackled the gunman. Or attempted to tackle the gunman, because the guy saw the movement in one of the mirrors installed above the register, and turned, taking Dean's tackle on his hip. He reached out a huge hand and hauled Dean up by the collar of his shirt, hitting him across the face with the barrel of the pistol before throwing him down on the floor. The girl behind the counter screamed and Sam took one step forward, hands up in a gesture of supplication.

"Look, no-one has to get hurt here," he said in a reasonable but firm voice to the man. "You want more money? Look, here's my wallet. Take it."

The huge man ignored him. "That was stupid," he told Dean, who was still trying to regain his footing. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple where the gun had hit him, and his eyes were dazed. The man aimed very carefully and deliberately. "But then, they told me you'd be stupid enough to try that."

"What?" Dean said.

Sam edged closer. The tawny-haired woman hadn't moved. She reminded him of a cat, her perfect stillness concealing muscles coiled tight and ready to spring. The other people who had been walking the aisles of the store idly slowly gathered in a loose circle around the cash register, arms hanging limply by their sides.

"Who told you?" Dean asked, still blinking and trying to get his bearings.

The gunman's eyes blanked to a dull, empty black. Sam's stomach sank. They should have known. The Colt was in the car, Ruby's knife was in the trunk—they should have expected this!

The demon smiled. "She sent us after you. Didn't tell us that it would be this easy, though."

"Sorry to spoil the fun," Dean snapped, finally back on his feet. He stared defiantly at the pistol. "So, you gonna shoot me, or what?"

"No," the gunman said. "We have to tie up some loose ends first." He swung the pistol to the girl behind the counter and shot her in the head.

"No!" Sam didn't realize he had leapt forward and yelled until the gunman's fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him to the ground with incredible force. He hit a display of newspapers on the way down, all corners and sharp edges. Something in his shoulder cracked and popped, blinding him with a burst of pain. His vision blurred and he faintly heard Dean yelling, and the other demons murmuring around the register. He lifted his head in time to see the big demon hit Dean across the face again and throw him into the nearest rack of snacks. Then there was the click of high heels and the woman who had been in front of them in line was on her knees beside Sam, her cool hand slipping under his chin, turning his head to look at her.

"Are you all right, Sam?" she said quietly, her hazel eyes holding his gaze hypnotically.

"Help Dean," was all he could say. Never mind the fact that she knew his name, never mind the fact that he could suddenly breathe again when her hands touched him.

"Have faith," she replied as she drew away. As soon as she broke physical contact, Sam gasped and fought back a wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. He clutched his shoulder, realized that touching it made the pain worse, and pulled himself up into a sitting position with his good arm, using a magazine rack as leverage.

"That all you got?" Dean was swaying on his feet, taunting the big demon as he looked around for something—anything—that he could use. He edged toward the end of the aisle, ignoring the blood dripping into his eyes, reaching behind him. His hand groped blindly as the big demon laughed, shoving the pistol into his waistband. He closed his fingers around a plastic package.

"You know," the linebacker-sized demon sneered, "maybe this will be fun after all."

Dean had time to smile crookedly before he found himself on the floor. The other demons crowed with laughter. It was like a damn cage-match, he realized. Lilith was sending her bored demons out to play with them. A heavy boot slammed into his side and he instinctively curled around his ribs. He was too dizzy to open his eyes as the big demon grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him upright.

Dean sucked in a huge breath. Come on, Winchester, he admonished himself silently, you gonna run out of smart-ass remarks now? "So how much did you have to suck up to your boss to get this job?" he gritted out. Weak, yeah, but it was effort.

"Oh," said the demon, "you know, just helped to kill a few hunters, seal some deals." He grinned nastily. "I'm looking forward to stringing your guts across this place like streamers," he said very quietly into Dean's ear.

"Aren't you just a little ray of sunshine," grunted Dean.

The demon looked at his cohorts and then glanced back at Dean. He turned his head and his dark eyes settled on Sam, who was struggling to stand. "Or maybe I'll make your brother scream first."

"Don't you dare touch him," growled Dean, suddenly struggling in the demon's grasp. "Run, Sam! Run!"

One of the other demons stepped forward. "Enough with the teasing," he said. "Let's just do the job."

"You have no sense of humor," the big demon said. "You finish the other one, if you're so concerned."

"Sam!" shouted Dean as the other five demons advanced on his brother.

"Shut up," said the demon holding him, shifting his hold to Dean's throat, strangling him. After a moment, he threw Dean down like a rag doll.

Sam watched the five demons advancing on him. He glanced over at Dean. They were in deep, no question about it. Where the hell had that woman gone? She'd promised to help Dean. He shook his head and turned his attention to the first demon. With a little effort, working past the pounding in his head, he found that sixth sense, that mental gear he used to pull out the demons. Ruby had taught him well: he bent his concentration on the first demon, a slouching middle-aged man, and the man choked, the black cloud leaking from his eyes and ears and throat. He collapsed. Two of the other demons looked confused and backed up a little. The other two launched themselves at him. It was all he could do to fend off the first few blows. He felt himself losing his grip on consciousness, but he focused his remaining energy on draining the demon from one of his two assailants. Down to one. Satisfaction burned through him, but he wasn't sure how long he would last against three more.

A flash of movement caught his eye. It was the woman, and she had a canister of salt in her hand, a long, wicked hunting knife in the other. She licked the blade and then lunged forward at the three demons. The blade flashed white and one of the demons screamed, a black column tearing out of his mouth. Sam's head was spinning. Did she have Ruby's knife? How did she know about salt? She threw the knife at one of the remaining demons. Sam heard a cry of pain from Dean. He tried to stand.

"No!" She tossed him the canister of salt and after he nodded to show he understood, she whirled and faced the big demon. Sam poured a circle of salt around himself, the line wavy as his hands shook.

The big demon was facing away from them. He walked over to Dean and picked him up yet again. "Any insults left now, tough guy?"

"Yeah." It took Dean almost all of his energy to get one word out. But it was just too good. He had to get a parting shot in. "Enjoy your stay in Hell." And he shoved a crucifix into the demon's open, laughing mouth, pushing it in as far as he could. Lucky for convenience store conversion packs, he thought grimly as the demon screamed and convulsively threw him.

He hit the glass door of the freezer in the back of the store. The glass crunched behind him and he didn't even have the energy to put his hands out in front of him to break his fall. He tried to remember how to breathe. Then he heard the demon laugh.

"You think a little plastic crucifix is gonna send me back to Hell? Boy, you aren't half of what Lilith thought you were," sneered the demon. Dean lifted his head weakly as the demon pulled the pistol out of his waistband and cocked the weapon with his thumb. Dean closed his eyes, praying Sammy couldn't see, and he heard the hollow echoing boom of the shot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Virtual hugs to you all! This next chapter is rather long...there was really no point that I could stop and be satisfied, so it ended up like this. I hope you enjoy discovering the identity of our boys' mystery woman, and please let me know what you think!**

**Arwen**

Dean lifted his head weakly as the demon pulled the pistol out of his waistband and cocked the weapon with his thumb. Dean closed his eyes, praying Sammy couldn't see, and he heard the hollow echoing boom of the shot…but…he didn't feel anything.

"Dean!"

He heard Sam's yell and opened his eyes. The good-looking girl who had stepped in front of him in line was on the ground…and so was the big demon. A surge of adrenaline pumped through him. No more dead innocent people on his watch. He clenched his teeth and tried to stand but was reduced to a kind of army-crawl. Better than nothing. But before he got to her, the woman stood up, quite unconcernedly, and walked over to the hulking form of the demon. Dean watched in amazement as she placed one high-heel-clad foot on the demon's chest. He strained to hear her words as she bent closer to the demon's head.

"Make sure you tell your master hello," she said quietly, almost too quiet for him to hear. There was a steeliness to her words that impressed him. Then she made a quick motion with her right hand, bringing it in a fist above her head and arcing it down toward the demon's chest. The demon convulsed under her foot, screaming as it was exorcised.

An eerie silence descended over the convenience store for a brief moment. The woman remained with one foot on the defeated demon. Then she lifted her head at the sound of Sam's voice.

"Dean? Dean!" The younger Winchester pulled himself along through the aisle, knocking cans of soup off the shelves as he flailed for balance with his good hand.

"'M okay…Sammy…" Dean murmured, grimacing against the heaviness of his eyelids. In small bits and pieces, he became very aware of just how much his whole body hurt.

"You are so not okay, Dean," Sam said. He paused and looked at the strange woman. She wordlessly took his good arm and placed it over her shoulder, supporting him as he moved toward Dean.

"You…okay, Sammy?" Dean was trying to focus. He had pushed himself into a sitting position against the fractured door, but felt himself sliding down toward the floor. Blinking up at the woman, he frowned. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied.

"Let's…go, Sammy," Dean said. "Get outta here."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said, his worry plain in his quick agreement. "Yeah, we can do that." He felt a lot better, for some reason, good enough to stand on his own and size Dean up. God, he was in bad shape. He couldn't tell what all was wrong, but it wasn't good. It definitely wasn't good.

"Here," said the woman. She cradled Dean's head in her hands.

Dean blinked. "Sammy…why's the crazy chick touching me."

Sam shrugged. "I wouldn't call her crazy if I were you, Dean. She helped save your life."

"Helped?" The woman glanced at Sam skeptically, and then turned back to her inspection of Dean, running her fingers expertly over the back of his head and his neck.

"Okay, so you saved both our lives," admitted Sam. He paused. "How did you know our names?"

"It's not hard to pick things up, if you're perceptive enough," she said mysteriously. Then she nodded. "Doesn't look like he has any spinal injuries. We shouldn't paralyze him when we move him."

"Comforting," commented Dean with a raised eyebrow. Then he frowned. "There's no 'we' here."

"Yes, there is," she replied calmly.

"No, there's not," said Sam. "I mean, thanks for helping us out and all—but we can't involve you in what we're doing."

"What, hunting demons?" she asked candidly. Both brothers stared at her, stunned. She shook her head at Sam. "Word was you at least had some brains."

"Hey," Dean said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She looked down at him. "You I expected to have the dominant Winchester stupidity gene. You both have a family history of actions that can only be explained by borderline insanity or a very low level of intelligence, or both. But you, Sam, I expected to be a little more level-headed."

"Winchester stupidity gene?" Dean repeated. "Look, lady, I don't know who you think you are—"

"You don't know who I am," she said, interrupting him with a quiet but firm voice.

"Well, how are we supposed to know?" Sam said.

"You could just ask," suggested the woman. "Come on, we should get going before Lilith gets wind of this."

"Whoa," Sam said. "How do you know about Lilith?"

The woman sighed and gave him a long-suffering look.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, grimacing as he pushed himself up a little farther.

"You can call me Abby." She sat back on her heels and regarded them both.

"But that's not your real name," guessed Sam.

"Maybe they weren't completely wrong about your intelligence. No, that's not my real name. Call it a nickname." Abby stood and extended her hand to Dean. "Come on," she repeated. "We need to get going."

After a moment of hesitation, Dean grasped her hand. He almost passed out as he stood up, but somehow he found himself propped between Sam and Abby, with Abby taking most of the weight. They awkwardly limped toward the doors. There was a moment when Dean thought all three of them were going down, when Sam tripped and instinctively pulled on him to regain his balance. Dean's knees buckled at the pressure on his shoulder and it was Abby who kept him from face-planting on the floor, her slim form showing no strain as she used her free hand to grip the front of his shirt.

"I've got him, Sam," Abby said, and after a stubborn moment Sam released Dean and concentrated on walking on his own. As they crossed the parking lot, Dean noticed that most of his aches and pains receded, and his head cleared a little bit. He also noticed that Abby had slipped her arm beneath his jacket and her hand was gripping his bare elbow.

"So if Abby's not your real name, what is?" Sam asked as he opened the back door of the Impala. Dean dug in his heels when he realized that they were going to try to put him in the back seat.

"No way," he grunted. "I'm drivin."

"You're in no shape to drive," said Abby reasonably.

"She's right, Dean."

"Since when do you let strange chicks make your decision for you, Sam?" snapped Dean irritably. He shrugged off Abby's arm. "I'm fine enough to drive my own damn car!" He swayed a little as he took a step toward the driver's door, suddenly short of breath and fighting down nausea.

Abby reached over and pressed lightly on Dean's ribs. Dean woke up in the back seat and promptly swore vehemently when he saw that Abby was behind the wheel. "Sam!" he protested. "You're lettin' her drive?"

"Women are better drivers than men, statistically," commented Abby.

"Bullshit!" shouted Dean. Then he groaned as he realized that shouting was definitely not agreeable with his battered ribs at the moment. "Sam, come on man, please."

"Dude, I got a busted shoulder," said Sam. He looked back at Dean and gave a little smile of apology.

"You are such a little bitch," said Dean.

Sam ignored him, turning his attention to the woman in the driver's seat. They pulled out of the gas station and onto the interstate again. "Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe," she replied.

"And we're supposed to be cool with you just haulin' our asses off to the middle of nowhere?" demanded Dean.

"Yes," said Abby.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said at the same time. "Where else are we gonna go?"

"We can finish what we came out here to do," Dean said doggedly. He shifted a little, seeing if there was any way he could position himself so that something wasn't sending out sharp waves of pain. Nope. No success. He gritted his teeth.

"You can't even drive," pointed out Abby.

"Thanks for rubbin' it in," snapped Dean.

Abby glanced back at him, her hazel eyes darkening in concern. "Should I take you to a hospital?"

"Why are you askin' me? You seem to be in charge," shot back Dean. He felt something warm oozing down the side of his head. Great. Blood on the seats. That was a bitch to get out.

Abby shook her head and turned her attention back to the road. "It's a wonder there was enough left of you both for me to get assigned," she muttered, mostly to herself.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just…be quiet, Dean," Sam said. Their verbal duel was fueling the ache in his head. "She single-handedly took out three demons back there, one that was doing a pretty good job of kicking your ass, so why don't you just save your energy. I think you'll need it later."

"Sure, side with the crazy chick," Dean said under his breath, but stopped talking after that.

Sam turned to Abby, shifting his shoulder a little. "What's your real name?"

She laughed a little. "I'm not going to give it to you that easily, Sam."

Dean was struggling through every little bump in the road, but he was still following the conversation. Something was bugging him…some idea was tapping at the back of his mind but the pain wouldn't let it in.

"Give me a hint."

Abby seemed to realize that this was Sam's way of dealing with the pain. "Ask another question."

Dean lifted his head a little in the back seat. "Are you a crazy psycho-bitch who's going to kill us and chop us up into little pieces and bury us at mile-markers along the interstate?"

Sam looked over his shoulder at his older brother, eyes glimmering with reproach and suppressed amusement. A bit of a smile twitched at the corner of Abby's mouth.

"A relevant question, please," she said.

"Totally relevant," grumbled Dean. He suppressed a groan as they hit a pothole.

"Sorry," said Abby. Dean considered her tone of voice and decided she was serious.

"How did you know how to deal with demons?" Sam asked.

"Experience," she replied.

"As a hunter?"

"No."

"So you're not a hunter?"

"No."

Sam paused. "Cristo."

Abby slid a sidelong glance at him. "Honestly?"

He shrugged. "Covering all the bases." He thought a little. "How old are you?"

"Never ask a woman her age," she admonished.

"Avoiding the question," said Sam.

"Crazy psycho-bitch," said Dean as they hit another pothole.

"Don't be a baby," she replied, turning off the interstate onto a smaller road.

"Are you employed by anyone?"

"Yes."

"Anyone we know?"

She paused. "Dean knows him."

"And I don't?" Sam frowned.

"Not personally."

"Not personally," Sam repeated, thinking hard. "Not one of his wham-bam girls, I hope?"

Dean groaned and Abby rolled her eyes. "No. Thankfully."

"So not the time, Sammy," the elder Winchester said. "Way to hit a man when he's down."

"Next question."

"Are you…something other than human?"

Abby glanced over at Sam. "Yes." She flicked the turn signal on and turned onto another street, a road that wasn't properly paved, just lined with gravel.

Sam was trying to put it all together. Abby wasn't her real name, it was a nickname; she was employed by someone Dean knew but he didn't; she knew how to vanquish demons and was pretty damn good at it; her hands had some sort of small healing power…

They pulled into the driveway of a small brick farmhouse. Abby killed the engine.

Sam turned to her slowly, grimacing as lances of pain shot out from his shoulder. He saw the empathy in her eyes as she reached out and touched her fingertips to the top of his hand. The pain in his shoulder eased.

"Okay, enough with the Hallmark moment." Dean pushed himself up on one elbow.

"Any references to your name in any books?" Sam asked intently.

"Yes."

"A book I would know without looking for it?"

"Depends. If you're as well-read as I was told, then yes."

"A poem?"

"Yes."

Sam was leaning forward now, shoulder forgotten as his brown eyes focused intently on her face. "A poem by John Milton?"

"That's the one." She smiled a little at him. "Let's get you both inside and then we'll continue the conversation."

There was a wrought-iron fence encircling the yard. After a few missteps, both Winchesters managed to get inside. Abby closed the door behind them and promptly poured a line of salt across the threshold. "I know it makes you more comfortable, to have a visual," she said to them. Dean gave up on trying to decipher her mysterious remarks. He'd let Sam do the thinking for both of them.

She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with two glasses of water and a bottle of Tylenol, along with a nylon bag. "Not much, but it's all I have for now. I didn't really expect to get into a scrape this early."

"This early?"

"On the job."

"Okay." Dean swallowed the offered pills. "Enough with the puzzles. Either you tell us who you are and who you work for or…"

Abby smiled at him. It rankled him, that he couldn't get under her skin. "Or you'll what, Dean?"

He settled for glaring at her.

"It's your job to protect us?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

"Bang-up job so far," Dean drawled.

"I'm a little rusty, okay?" she fired back at him. "It's been a while since I've been in the field."

Something about that phrase rattled a memory in Dean's head. "Castiel…said something about the field, the other night."

"Castiel." Sam seized the name. "You know him… and I don't…and he's not human." He looked at Abby. "You work for Castiel?"

"Temporarily," said Abby. "I volunteered. Normally, he works for me."

Dean snorted. "Come on. You expect us to believe you're an angel?"

"And why is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, you're good-lookin and all, but I'd expect an angel to be at least a ten out of ten."

Abby actually laughed at him. "I forgot how much stock you put in physical appearances."

"Are you…possessing somebody, like Castiel does?" Sam asked.

"No." She shook her head. "I'm able to hold physical form. It's harder, for some of the younger ones, to do that." She smiled.

"Your name," Sam said slowly, "you said you were mentioned in Paradise Lost."

"Yes." She unzipped the bag to reveal an extensive medical kit. "I might as well start patching you up while you figure this all out." She looked at Dean. "Can you get your shirt off by yourself?"

"Wait…" Dean was still processing the last bit of information. "You're a chick angel."

"Yes," Abby said patiently.

"There're no chick angels in Milton."

Sam looked sharply at Dean, who shrugged a little.

"Very perceptive," she said appreciatively. "But let's just say that Milton's time wasn't really…progressive enough…to appreciate the diversity of Heaven's Host." She looked down at him. "Shirt. Off."

He grumbled at her and she had to help him with both the jacket and the shirt. He hissed as she pulled out a few shards of glass from his shoulder.

"I think I know your name," Sam said slowly.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. You've been trying to figure it out for over half and hour."

"It's just that…if you really are…who I think you are…it's a little much to handle."

"In the dark here, Sam," Dean said impatiently.

"Abby," Sam said, "is short…for Abdiel."

A shudder ran through the house. Abby looked up from examining the lacerations on Dean's shoulders. "Yes. I am Abdiel."

"So spake the seraph Abdiel faithful found," said Sam slowly, "Among the faithless, faithful only he among innumerable false. Unmoved, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal." He shook his head and looked at the woman kneeling by his brother with wide eyes.

"I don't get it," said Dean. "What's the big deal here, Sammy? Assuming this chick is an angel, and assuming she is Ab-whatever, why's it different than…any other angel? If they exist," he finished hotly. "Ow, woman, that hurt."

Abby raised her eyebrows at him. "Castiel was right when he told me you had a respect issue."

"According to Milton, Abdiel was the only angel recruited for Satan's rebellion against God that rejected him," said Sam.

Abby made a little sound that could have been a laugh. "Talk about peer pressure."

"So…you did? You said no to the big bad? And survived?" Dean asked with a spark of interest.

"Easy there. Yes and yes. We're pretty hard to kill." She picked up a pair of tweezers. "Hold still."

Dean clenched his teeth together as she used the tweezers to draw a long, wicked shard of glass out of his shoulder. She dropped the tweezers and the shard of glass as soon as it was free of his skin and put pressure on the wound with one hand, her other hand lightly touching his arm. He felt the pain ebbing away, like she was drawing it out of him through her fingertips.

"That was deeper than I thought," she said in an apologetic tone.

"Stop…doin' that," Dean said irritably, batting her hand away from his arm. She drew back her hand, surprised, and he reeled backwards, almost fainting. With a deft maneuver, Abby turned him on his side, letting him lie down without further damaging his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, again, she was shaking her head at him.

"You really are stubborn," she said.

"Am not," he argued automatically.

She smiled wryly at him, searching through the nylon medical bag. "You think you're so tough, Dean," she said.

He bridled at her patronizing tone. "Yeah well, compared to most people, I am."

"There's a difference between tough and stupid," she shot back. Dean frowned. Sam followed the exchange with interest, leaning back in his overstuffed armchair. Dean had to swallow a groan, teeth bared in a grimace of pain as Abby removed another shard of glass and swabbed his shoulder with disinfectant. The angel moved a little quicker and rougher than necessary as she taped a bandage over the deepest puncture wound. Then she ran her hands down his left side, pressing on his ribs. Sam started up as Dean cried out.

Abby stopped, and wiped her hands on her dark pants. "I apologize," she said softly to Dean. "That was not a worthy thing to do." She paused. "But it pains me, to see your pain, and not be allowed to ease it." Dean blinked up at her dazedly. "You have quite a few cracked ribs," she continued. "You must be very uncomfortable."

"Dean, let her help you," Sam suggested quietly. He was tired of watching his brother try to hide his pain; Dean always tried, and nearly succeeded most times, but that was why it made Sam even more upset to see Dean hurt.

Dean turned his face away, into the back of the couch. Sam couldn't hear the exchange as Abby bent over his brother's head, whispering.

Dean tried not to hear her words. His whole body ached, sharp pains accenting the low throb here and there. He couldn't catch his breath and he couldn't think straight, but one thought kept looping through his dazed mind, a thought that had surfaced every time he had experienced pain since the day he had crawled out of his own grave. I deserve this. I should be dead. I should be in Hell, so I deserve this.

"Dean," the woman was saying, bending down very close to him. She smelled faintly of something sweet, something lovely but at the same time with an undercurrent of danger and mystery. He pressed his lips together as his ribs protested the fact that he was breathing. "Let me help you." Her hazel eyes caught and held his fading gaze, and he felt like he was falling into their brown and green and gold depths, through a universe of color. She moved still closer to him. There was barely a foot between their lips. "You do not deserve this, Dean," she whispered. "Stop fighting against me. Stop fighting against yourself."

He tried to roll onto his other side, so that he could stare at the ugly green fabric of the couch and try to deal with things on his own terms. But his face twisted as something shifted sharply deep within him. It took a lot of effort just to get one breath. He knew something was really wrong, more than just a few bruises and cracked ribs.

"Let me help you, Dean," he heard her murmur again.

"Dean," came Sam's worried voice.

Fine. He'd let this angel chick help him, but only because Sammy wanted him to, only because he couldn't leave Sammy alone to face the apocalypse. He closed his eyes, meaning to tell her, yeah, sure, go on with the laying of the hands, crazy chick, but his eyelids were so heavy, and he was so tired.

"Dean," came Abby's voice, now authoritative. It seemed as though she recognized his decision. "Open your eyes."

He felt her hands on his chest, not just fingertips, palms pressed against his skin. Her hands were cool, soothing the fire in his chest, loosening the iron bands constricting his lungs.

"Open your eyes," she repeated. This time it wasn't a suggestion, it was a command. Dean found himself struggling to open his eyes, finding it very difficult. One of her hands moved to his side, tracing a soothing circle over his ribs. He finally managed to open his eyes, fighting back the darkness that had seemed so inviting a moment ago.

"Good," she said, her hands still on his chest. He blinked. The edges of her face were fuzzy with a strange brightness. "Now take a deep breath."

He complied and then suddenly there was a sharp jab of agony in his side, lancing into him, and there was an elephant on his chest, pressing down on him, making breathing impossible.

Sam lurched forward as he saw Dean jerk and choke as he tried to breathe, his eyes panicked. He couldn't look at Abby directly—a sharp, hot brightness lined her skin. The house shuddered. Dean struggled to breathe, his efforts becoming weaker and weaker.

"Dean," Sam said desperately, falling to his knees beside his brother.

"Do not touch him." Abby's voice was no longer her own—there were a thousand voices in one, growing in volume and pitch, terrible and beautiful in their number. She held up one shining hand to prevent Sam from touching Dean's suddenly still body, and the other hand plunged into Dean's chest. Sam fell back with a wordless exclamation of horror and was forced to shield his eyes from the brightness. The shining thing that had been Abby a moment ago made a quick movement, and there was a snapping sound from deep within Dean. The elder Winchester jumped as if electrocuted and gasped. Just as suddenly, the shining being—Abdiel—was just Abby again. She sat back, visibly pale and shaken, hiding her face until she could compose herself.

"Dean?" Sam said. His older brother coughed a little and looked up at him.

"What just happened, Sammy?" he asked, voice stronger than it had been since they'd gotten into the house.

"Um," Sam said, "I'm not quite sure, but…Abby…she….her hand was, like, in your chest, dude."

"The angel-chick went Witness on me?" Dean looked at his own chest in horror, the fact that it was obviously whole doing nothing to appease his shock.

Abby held up a thick wedge of glass. "This hit one of your ribs and broke it. Your movement just now dislodged the piece of broken rib and tore your lung."

"So…your hand…was in my chest," Dean said slowly.

"Yes. I had to put your rib back into place and seal your lung before you died."

Dean shivered. Then he scowled at Abby and looked at Sam. "Dude…I feel violated."

"What you should feel is lucky," Sam replied. He looked at Abby. "Thank you."

"Just doing my job," she said. She considered Dean. "He should be all right for the time being. I am surprised it did not happen sooner. Let me take a look at your shoulder, Sam."

Sam questioned Dean with his eyes and Dean nodded. "Won't be checkin' out anytime soon, Sammy."

"Good to know, Dean," Sam said softly. He smiled a little at his brother, fighting the urge to grimace. The pain in his shoulder had been building ever since he had sat down, and it was coming in waves now, throbbing down his side and up his neck.

Abby checked Dean's pulse and breathing one last time before standing and walking over to Sam. Surprisingly, Dean let her take his vitals without complaint. Sam couldn't decide if that was a good thing. Abby perched on the armrest of the chair and rested her left hand lightly on Sam's arm. He sighed and relaxed a little as the pain receded.

"I think it's dislocated," he told her.

"Don't try to lower your voice. I can still hear you, Sammy," Dean said from the other couch, pushing himself up on one elbow.

"Should he be moving around? With his rib?" Sam asked anxiously.

"I healed the bone. It should not cause any more problems," Abby replied calmly, running the fingers of her right hand over Sam's shoulder. She frowned slightly in concentration. There was an awkward bulge under his shirt—anyone would be able to see that something was out of place.

"I hit a magazine stand on the way down," offered Sam.

Abby gently pressed around the joint, then straightened. "You are right. It's dislocated. An anterior dislocation, which is the most common, but the reduction will still not be pleasant."

"Reduction?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Popping the head of the humerus back into the socket of the shoulder."

"Oh. Sounds…fun."

"Thanks, Dean," said Sam with an edge of sarcasm.

"There is a way you could try to do it on your own, but it often doesn't work on the first try." Abby watched him intently. "Have you ever dislocated your shoulder before?"

"No." Sam took a deep breath. The adrenaline from the convenience store was definitely wearing off, and Tylenol really only took the edge off. He glanced down and saw that both of Abby's hands were resting in her lap. She saw the direction of his gaze and smiled a little ruefully.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said, "but there's only so much I can take away before it makes it difficult for me to keep my form. I didn't expect to have to expend so much energy so quickly. And I need you to feel the pain so you can tell when the joint returns to its place."

"What, so you're fine numbing me up but you won't give your little happy touch to Sam?" Dean demanded from the couch. He was sitting up, one arm wrapped loosely around his ribs. He'd had broken ribs before, and it was equally uncomfortable both laying down and sitting, so he'd decided he might as well have a good view of the proceedings.

"Dean," Sam said wearily. "I'll be fine." He looked at Abby. "Can you put it back in? Or at least help me when I try?"

"I can do it, Sam, if you trust me," she replied.

He nodded. "Do it."

"I'll need you on the floor, lying down. You'll be more comfortable that way."

Sam awkwardly slid out of the chair. He grimaced at the pull on his shoulder.

"All right. Try to relax," she said, moving to his side on her knees and gripping above his elbow with her right hand, and his wrist with her left. Dean watched tensely. Sam took a deep breath and clenched his teeth.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," he said shortly, his other hand gripping the carpet with white knuckles.

Abby carefully straightened his arm against his side, bringing his wrist up so that his forearm was perpendicular to the ground. She began to push his forearm away from his torso, keeping his upper arm steady with her other hand. Sam tensed and one of his knees shot up, his shoe clunking into the ground as he fought the pain. Abby paused, holding his arm in position.

"Sam, I need you to relax, please. This won't work if you're tense."

He was still trying so hard not to writhe in pain, but his muscles were still taut as a guitar string. Abby tried again with a different tactic.

"What else do you know about me?" she asked.

"From Paradise Lost?" Sam gritted out.

"Sure."

"Well…you…stood up to Satan…and turned your back on him, when he tempted the rebel angels to…war against God," he said, words punctuated by gasps. As his brow creased in thought, Abby slowly began moving his forearm again.

"That all you got, Sammy?" Dean drawled. "All that time readin' and that's all you got?"

"Jerk," Sam gritted.

"Bitch."

Sam lifted his head enough to shoot Dean a glare. "Abdiel…was also the first angel…to strike a blow in the war in Heaven." He looked up at Abby. "You struck Lucifer with your sword…on his helmet…because he taunted you…"

"He took the name of the Lord in vain," Abby agreed seriously, still pushing his wrist away from his body.

"You're in trouble then, Dean," Sam quipped. Then he cried out in pain.

Abby eased his arm down so that it was straight by his side. "It didn't work," she said.

"I thought you said you knew what you were doing!" Dean said with a hint of a threat in his voice.

"I do," she replied fiercely, "I just wanted to try the gentlest way first." She adjusted her grip on Sam's arm. "This is called the Hippocratic method," she informed them before pulling straight back on Sam's arm. He jerked, but she held his arm in place. "Stay with me, Sam," she said as he groaned. Then there was a pop and Sam's tense body suddenly relaxed. "Well, the modified Hippocratic method," Abby admitted as she gently laid Sam's arm across his chest. "Usually, a foot placed in the axial joint is used as leverage, but I am strong enough not to need leverage."

"Way to be modest," said Dean.

"Much better," sighed Sam. She helped him sit up and probed his shoulder with two fingers, nodding in satisfaction.

"Well," she said as she stood, "now that everyone's sufficiently patched up, would you like something to eat?"

Sam shook his head. "I think I just want to get some rest."

Dean, however, despite his battered state, perked up at the mention of food. "Got any burgers? Or pie?"

"I did my research on you both before coming on assignment," she informed him. "I have both." She lifted one eyebrow. "Let me guess…double cheeseburger, extra onions, French fries, and a slice of apple pie."

Dean, for once, was speechless. She smiled at him and walked out of the room, toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He glanced over at Sam. "Dude…I think I'm starting to like this angel chick."


	3. Chapter 3

**Virtual cookies to all my reviewers! This next chapter is kind of character development, especially between Abby and Dean. I hope you enjoy it...leave me some love! :)**

**Arwen**

"If I would have known that a cheeseburger would get you to sit still for this long," commented Abby dryly, "I would have had made some in preparation for your arrival."

Dean clearly wasn't listening. He was seated at the kitchen table, staring at the double cheeseburger, with extra onions, that was currently reposing in all its glory on a plate on the counter. His jacket was draped around his shoulders, and that was all—he had discovered he was too sore to even really want to put a shirt on, and he'd rather eat a cheeseburger shirtless than not at all. Abby finished scooping the fries onto the plate, raising one eyebrow in amusement at the lust plastered across Dean's face as he forced himself to sit through the painfully long wait. Finally, Abby set the plate in front of him.

"Come to Daddy, baby," he said, picking up the cheeseburger. Abby rolled her eyes.

"You really don't have manners," she said in an undertone, replacing the spatula in the pan. Dean gave her his best sarcastic glare before taking a bite of the cheeseburger, closing his eyes with a sigh of contentment. "You know," Abby continued, "you were just given a cheeseburger by the hand that struck Satan the first blow in the War of Heaven. The least you could do is say thank you."

Dean paused and contemplated the cheeseburger. "Could use more ketchup," he commented around a mouthful, rectifying the shortage before returning to his enjoyment. Abby shook her head, a glimmer of amusement shining in her eye as she pulled up a stool next to Dean's seat.

"I might as well take advantage of your obvious preoccupation," she said, unrolling her medical kit. Without preamble, she selected a needle and began inspecting different thicknesses of thread. Dean paused in the middle of a bite.

"What exactly are you plannin' on doin' with that?" he asked warily, shifting a little in the chair as he looked at the long, glinting needle.

"A few of the lacerations in your shoulder need stitches," Abby said, selecting a length of thread.

"Hell no," said Dean. "You are not pokin' me with that damn thing."

She looked sharply at him, hazel eyes flashing for a moment with an otherworldly light. "Watch your tongue, Dean Winchester. I may be in human-like form but I am still an angel. You would do well to temper your words."

Dean smiled at her, cheeks full of hamburger. He swallowed. "Castiel don't seem to mind. Or are you a little more sensitive to us mortals' ways, since you're a chick and all?"

Abby put down the first needle and selected another, significantly longer one, holding it up to the light. She smiled sweetly at Dean. "Castiel inhabits a true human form. As such, he chooses to tolerate much more from you. His primary concern was to inform you of Lilith's quest to unlock the guards set upon Satan." Her eyes glimmered dangerously. "I, however, am not borrowing a mortal's body."

"So?" Dean asked blankly, shoving another bite of cheeseburger into his mouth. God, one of the worst parts about Hell, even though he couldn't remember, must have been the lack of cheeseburgers. And pie. No cheeseburgers and pie constituted a hefty punishment in itself.

Abby obviously decided not to dignify his sarcasm with a reply. She threaded the needle after sterilizing it. Dean looked at her with consternation.

"Do you have to do that now?"

"You're sitting still," she pointed out.

"But I'm eating."

"I assumed that the sensation of gorging yourself on fattening food would negate the slight discomfort of my medical ministrations."

Dean blinked. "In English, please." Sam snorted from the living room. "Shut up, Sam."

"She means," Sam said, walking into the kitchen with his arm held gingerly across his chest, "that she thought you'd be too busy making love to your stupid burger to notice her stitching you up."

"Hey," said Dean reproachfully. He shielded his half-eaten cheeseburger from Sam's view with one hand. "It's okay, baby, he didn't mean it."

Sam chuckled and pulled up the chair beside Abby, sitting down with a sigh.

"Are you hungry?" Abby asked.

"No, thanks," Sam said with a wave of his good hand. "Just have a lot to think about."

"You are very limited in your dealings with angels," observed Abby.

"I've never met one before, actually," said Sam with a bit of sheepishness.

"You popped his angel-knowin' cherry," Dean said to Abby with a roguish grin.

Abby looked confused. "I do not understand your meaning."

"Never mind." Sam shook his head at his older brother. "Seriously?"

"Come on, have a sense of humor."

"Yeah, well, there's a time and a place."

"Who says this isn't the right time and place?"

Sam sighed and shook his head again. "I just want to know what's going on." He looked at Abby. "How did those demons know we were going to that convenience store, anyway? It was an ambush."

She gazed at Sam. "Lilith has not forgotten you. When you put the Witnesses to rest, she decided to put more effort into killing you both so you will not interfere with her plans."

Dean finished his cheeseburger and sat back with a contented sigh. "You know, you're a lot better at the whole straight-answers thing than most angels I know."

"You mean, I am better at answering your questions than the only other angel you know," corrected Abby.

"Well, yeah, that too."

"Castiel believes that mortals must be left to find their own path."

"And you?" asked Sam.

She considered the question seriously for a long moment. Dean started in on his fries in the interlude. "Well," she said slowly, "you have read Milton's work, Sam. What happens in the Garden of Eden before the Fall?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "God sends Raphael down to tell Adam and Eve about the temptation."

"Yes. Your forebears had that knowledge, but did they choose anything different than what was meant to be?"

"Eve was still tempted by Satan, and she still ate the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge," Sam answered slowly. He shrugged. "I thought it was just a poem."

"There are many strands of truth, Sam Winchester," said Abby.

"Can you stop with the whole full-name thing? It's kind of annoying," said Dean.

Abby frowned again, clearly thinking. "I apologize. It has been many years since I have been forced to communicate verbally. My skills are…rusty, I think you say?"

"Yeah, I'll say," muttered Dean. "Castiel seems to do fine."

"You do not understand. Comparing me to Castiel when he is borrowing a believer's body is like…comparing a kitten to a panther." She smiled a little. "I am used to roaring. I have to learn how to purr."

"Pretty sure panthers don't purr," pointed out Dean smugly.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, they can."

"What?"

"Most of the big cats can actually purr in short bursts, just not constantly," said Sam. He stopped when he saw the look on Dean's face. "What?"

"Dude, you watch way too much Discovery Channel."

"Well you watch way too much—"Sam checked himself and looked sharply at Abby. "There're a lot of things you need to work on with him."

"Bitch," Dean said.

"Jerk," responded Sam.

"I've done my research," was all Abby said, keeping her eyes on her medical kit.

For some inexplicable reason, Dean felt his ears burning.

"Are you blushing?" Sam demanded.

"No," he said furiously. "The onions…heartburn," he finished lamely.

Abby prudently stood and left the room, saying something vague about changing into more comfortable clothes. Sam immediately pounced on Dean.

"Dude, you're so blushing."

"Am not," Dean insisted hotly.

"Are too!"

The argument continued for about thirty seconds. Then Sam sat back.

"You don't want her to think you're a complete pervert," he said accusingly, pointing a finger at Dean.

"Sam," snapped Dean. "I'm not!"

"You subscribe to Busty Asian Babes."

"Shut up," hissed Dean. "How far away can she hear? And besides, past tense—my subscription expired when I was six feet under."

"Doesn't change the fact that you did, at one time, subscribe to said sinful website."

"Sam," said Dean seriously, "I swear, if you say one more word you are gonna be in a world of hurt when we've made sure that Lucifer isn't gonna walk the earth anytime soon."

Sam looked at Dean suspiciously. "Do you…want her…to like you?"

Dean shifted in his chair. "Figured you don't want an angel dislikin' you, Sammy."

"It's Sam," the younger Winchester corrected absently. "Then why are you arguing with her, Dean? Pretty sure that's high on the annoyance list, there."

Dean shrugged a little and then winced as his shoulder reminded him sharply of the pieces of glass that had very recently made his flesh their temporary home. "Just how I am. How I ended up."

"How you ended up? What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean sighed. "Well, how normal is it to have your father sell his soul to save your life…and then sell your own soul to save your brother's life…go to Hell because of this whole deal…and then pop up out of a grave like a daisy after a couple of months? Seriously, Sam, we've been hunters a long time. Had to mess us up somehow."

"You've been a hunter a long time. I've only got a few years under my belt."

"But you got in the game just in time for the action." Dean attempted to grin and failed miserably.

"Mess you up, maybe," Sam continued in his train of thought.

"Not funny."

"Come on, Dean, yeah it is."

"Not really, considering the fact that I don't even know whether I'm all here."

"What?" Sam sat up straighter, rearranging his arm with a slight grimace. "What are you talking about?"

"What if…I didn't come back all the way?" Dean asked seriously, green eyes pensive. "What if the reason I can't remember Hell is because I lost a part of myself there?" Then he looked up and saw that Sam's face had settled into a worried expression. Oops. Time for a diversion tactic. "But hey, that angel chick is hot, right?"

Sam's face relaxed and he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you haven't changed a bit."

Dean winked at him and smiled. Sam grinned back and got up, stretching with a groan. "Think I'm gonna go try to get some sleep."

"Did you call Bobby and tell him what's up?"

"I told him we'll be a little longer than we planned," hedged Sam.

"Did you tell him about the angel chick?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because…I didn't think he needed to know. Yet." Sam shrugged with his good shoulder. "Call it a hunch but I feel like an angel should be laying low. Hence the fact that Castiel only appears to you."

"Yeah, well, this chick doesn't seem to be followin' Castiel's playbook, if you know what I mean," pointed out Dean.

"You haven't exactly been nice to Castiel."

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved another French fry into his mouth.

"Are you finished with your meal?"

Dean jumped and looked behind him to find Abby standing behind his chair. "Je—jeez, what are you, a ninja?"

Abby smiled a little. "No. I have not had enough martial arts training to be considered a ninja."

"He means you're really quiet moving around," clarified Sam.

"I know," Abby replied. "But it seems to frustrate him when I don't respond to his sarcasm."

"Hey," said Dean. He blinked. Abby had changed into a green t-shirt and a pair of soft grey sweatpants. Somehow the laid-back outfit looked better on her than her earlier business attire. He had to shake his head a little. Focus, Dean. Focus.

"If you're done with your meal, I would like to look at your shoulder again. A few of the lacerations are deep enough to require stitches."

Dean pushed his plate away. "Sure, why not."

Abby pulled up a chair as Dean shrugged off one side of his jacket. She peeled off the gauze dressing and he bit back a sound of pain as she swabbed his shoulder with disinfectant again. The used gauze came away bright red. He winced and turned his head the other way as he saw her threading the needle. She paused. "Would you prefer me to numb the area with my…talent…or not?"

As much as Dean didn't like the idea of stitches without anesthetic, he shook his head. "Got any tricks in your magic bag there?"

"I did not have time to acquire all of what I wanted."

"Any chance of gettin' ahold of some whiskey then?" Dean asked hopefully. He'd ridden out a few bullet extractions on waves of Jack Daniels.

"I cannot risk clouding your judgement in so tenuous a time." He gave her a look. She smiled her small, enigmatic smile. "I apologize. I keep forgetting that you prefer words with no more than three syllables." She double-checked the threaded needle, swabbing it again with anesthetic. "I don't want you hung over anytime soon."

"Guess that makes sense," Dean said grudgingly. He set his teeth as he felt the first sting of the needle.

"So," Abby said from slightly behind him as she worked. "You must have questions for me."

"Maybe."

"Ask one."

Dean gripped the edge of the table and grunted as he suppressed the urge to move. "How 'bout the classic. Why does your boss let demons and their buddies make the world their playground, huh? Why doesn't He do somethin' about it?"

"If He did something about it, would it give people like you the choice to do something about it?" Abby asked quietly.

"None of this answerin' questions with questions bullshit. I get enough of that from your friend Castiel."

"Life is about questions, though," Abby said. "It's all about choice."

"What choice did I ever have?" demanded Dean.

"Hold still," she scolded. "You always have a choice, Dean. Think of life as layers of choices, all tiered under the…I think you would call it…the million-dollar question."

"And what's that?"

"To accept God or to reject Him."

Dean made a dismissive noise, then grimaced.

"Sorry. This one's a little deeper than the first one."

"So. The million-dollar question is to accept the man upstairs, or reject him," he said, voice frayed a little by the effort it took to hold still.

"Yes."

"And how are we supposed to know what this God wants us to do? Don't tell me to go read the Bible, because I'm pretty sure there's nothin' in there about what to do if you have to choose between exorcisin' a demon from a girl and lettin' her die because that demon jumped her body off a building, or lettin' her live and lettin' that demon keep borrowin' her body. There's nothin' in there about shootin' your own father because he's possessed with a demon that killed your mother and fed your younger brother his blood. There's nothin'—"

"Dean." Abby moved into his line of sight, hazel eyes compassionate. Dean took a big, shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "You're angry. That's your defense against the evil you witness. It is understandable." She touched his arm with two fingers. He felt some of the pain ebb away, and he let her do it. He was so tired of fighting. Fighting everything. Abby moved closer and finished stitching. She picked up a tiny pair of scissors and snipped the thread. After taping another large square of gauze over his shoulder, she helped him shrug back into his jacket. Then she sat down next to him. He smelled her again—with any other woman he would have said he smelled her perfume, but she wasn't exactly the girl next door, and he was sure that the scent that moved in her wake would not be found in any bottle on a department store shelf.

"Do you want me to answer you, Dean?" she asked him seriously.

He swallowed. "Yeah. I'd like some straight talk for once."

"It's not going to be as straightforward as you like."

"Try me."

She held his eyes with her gaze. "Knowledge isn't the question. Obedience is the question, and faith is the answer."

Dean stood up, shoving his chair back with all the force he could manage. "See, now that's the bullshit your kind always gives. So damn enigmatic. Maybe that's why everything's so messed up down here—your type aren't very efficient communicators." He turned away and made for the living room, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. "Maybe if God wouldn't speak in riddles us mere mortals might have a better idea of what's expected of us." With that, he stalked away.

Abby cleaned the needle and repacked her kit with a neat precision. She stood and after grabbing a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, she headed back into the living room. Sam was stretched out on one of the couches, his legs dangling over the far armrest; and Dean was slouched in the overstuffed armchair, staring at the carpet, apparently lost in thought. Abby touched Sam's good shoulder gently. He squinted up at her as she offered him the bottle of water. "I thought you might be thirsty."

"Thanks." Sam tried to unscrew the lid with one hand and then smiled up at her sheepishly. She took the bottle, opened it and gave it back to him with an answering smile. He gulped down half its contents, sighed and set it down by the couch. He opened his mouth to ask her a question when she froze, every line in her body hardening with tension. A shiver ran through the house, and the timbers groaned as if in warning. Dean raised his head.

"Something is coming," Abby said, her voice trembling with more than one layer, the edges of her hazel eyes blurring into gold.

"Hold on with the power surge," snapped Dean. "Do you know what it is?"

"No."

Sam sat up and looked sharply at Dean. "The Colt and Ruby's knife are in the car."

"How much time do we have?" demanded Dean.

With an effort, Abby pushed down the glow, sliding back into her own skin. "We have at least five minutes. It just passed into the outer ring of my senses."

"What, so you're like, psychic too?"

"In a way, but it would be more accurately described as an expansion of sensory experience."

Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Sam. "Let's get the Colt and Ruby's knife."

"I will get the Colt and Ruby's knife," corrected Sam. "You're going to stay put."

"Hey, I'm the older one, I get to order you around, not the other way," protested Dean half-heartedly. His head was aching—the gash across his forehead, so nicely given by the linebacker demon's pistol, bothered him, and his shoulder ached sharply. His ribs, too, warned him not to move too quickly or emphatically.

Sam stood and walked out of the room.

"Aren't you gonna go with him?" Dean demanded of Abby. "Protection? Isn't that kinda your job?"

Abby did not answer him; her eyes glazed over with a faraway look. Then she blinked. "There is no immediate danger." The lights flickered and Dean gripped the armrests of the chair, clearly ready to rush to Sam's defense. "Do not worry. I am much faster than mortals and most demons."

"Most demons?"

"It has been a while since I have taken this form. I am still not used to its limitations, and I have to err on the side of caution. If I accidentally push the boundaries too far and revert to my natural state, it would be the equivalent of dropping an atomic bomb on this house and everything in it."

Dean gave a low whistle, the image of the crater around his grave coming to mind, the trees flattened as if from an explosion. He definitely didn't want to see that kind of power in action; he rubbed his arm against the goose-bumps crawling down his skin. "Okay. So do we know whether this thing is good or bad?"

"It is bad," Abby replied. Her lips curled slightly in an expression of disgust. "That much I am able to feel."

"Damn." Dean put his head in his hands and then jumped as if shocked. "Sorry! Didn't mean to…you know, swear."

Abby tilted her head as she looked at him, reminding him of a curious bird, or dog. "You do not usually apologize, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, well, going to Hell kind of changed my perspective a little."

Her expression of careful examination and curiosity deepened, brows drawing together. "You are afraid that you are not the same person as you were before you died."

Dean stared at her. "No way you can tell me you're not psychic, lady." He swallowed. "Might be a part of it," he admitted, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. Why was he spilling his soul, so to speak, to this angel-chick they'd met only a few hours ago? She listened so well, it made keeping his secrets really hard. And he wasn't sure he liked that particular feature of the Winchester bodyguard detail. The protecting against evil, that he could handle.

"I'm sorry," she said, "for making you uncomfortable. But if you want to talk about anything, I have a few thousand years of experience, so I give some pretty good advice."

"I'm not so good with the touchy-feely therapy stuff," said Dean after a moment. He noted that Abby had started to relax her dialogue, and he was grateful because his head was starting to hurt like a sonuvabitch and he couldn't understand her large SAT-prep words.

Sam arrived back in the room, Ruby's knife in one hand and Colt in the waistband of his jeans. As he was handing the knife to Dean, he noticed Abby's sudden sharp interest in the weapon. He offered it in an open palm for her inspection. She picked it up and looked at the metal closely. Then she drew it back and stabbed herself in the stomach.

Dean started forward out of his chair and Sam gave a yell of surprise, lunging forward with one hand raised as if he could stop her. Abby looked up, clearly startled by their reactions: the tip of the knife had only penetrated her skin just enough to draw a few drops of dark liquid. She offered the knife back to Sam unconcernedly.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked breathlessly, staring at her stomach. She lifted the edge of her shirt and wiped away a glittering substance that they could only assume was akin to blood.

"I wasn't familiar with the metal of the knife," she said, as if that explained everything.

Dean snorted. "So you try to stab yourself?"

"Trust me, it would take much more than an abdominal stab wound to come close to killing me," Abby replied. "But I wanted to see if the makers of the knife had perhaps created something similar to my sword."

"Your sword?" Sam repeated blankly.

"Yes. Oh. I forgot you cannot see it."

Dean suddenly remembered Abby standing on the linebacker demon, fist raised above her head right before she exorcised him. "You have an invisible sword. That exorcises demons," he said in his best dry, I-don't-believe-a-word-that-you're-saying drawl.

"It is invisible when I require it to be. But I can make it tangible, if that would put your mind at ease."

"I'm beyond the ease point," Dean said.

Abby ignored him and touched the air by her side. Her eyes flashed golden for a brief moment. There was suddenly a long, slim scabbard by her side, artfully made from dark, well-worked leather with gold accents. The sword's grip was of the same well-worn leather, almost faded to grey; there was an emerald set in the pommel, faceted to brilliantly reflect light. The weapon was not flashy in the style of dress swords—it had clearly been made for use, and it had clearly been used.

Sam was clearly fascinated. "Is that…the sword…"

"That struck Lucifer upon his helmet in the War for Heaven?" Abby smiled. "Perhaps."

"Can I see it?"

Abby shook her head. "Another time." At Sam's crestfallen look, she reminded him, "We must take care of more important matters now. Something wicked this way comes."

Dean groaned. "Don't they train you not to use clichés?"

"It accurately describes our situation, so I thought it was appropriate. Some evil creature is nearing the house."

"Yeah, what else is new." Dean stood and hefted Ruby's knife in one hand. "How bout let's give him a warm Winchester welcome."


End file.
